


heart, hold this together

by kalachuchi



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, idolverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalachuchi/pseuds/kalachuchi
Summary: Like this, Seungcheol is twenty-nine and twenty-three all at once, time folding into this pocket where he’s the same as he’s always been, as if nothing at all has changed.Or: Seungcheol returns from the military and discovers what has and hasn't remained the same.





	heart, hold this together

Seoul, as Seungcheol last remembers the city, is sharp with light: the neon glow of Hongdae at night pressing against the edges of Seungcheol’s vision; the familiar back-and-forth of Mingyu and Minghao arguing just to hear each other’s voice above the swell of the crowd; Junhui’s arms around Seungcheol’s shoulders, trailing clumsily after him from behind. Joshua’s somewhere just ahead–Seungcheol sees Soonyoung’s bright, fuzzy beanie from where he’s tucked against Joshua, Soonyoung’s cheeks flushed from alcohol and the cold.

It’s the first time in months since Seungcheol’s seen any of them, and it’ll be months again until he sees them next, but in this moment Mingyu is tripping forward over seemingly nothing, Minghao shaking with laughter even as he moves to catch him, Junhui’s laugh soft and breathless in Seungcheol’s ears as Joshua and Soonyoung grin.

In this moment the world around Seungcheol is softened by their joy, Seungcheol’s own laugh loud from his chest, an almost intrusive happiness shaped and held together by the people he’s with, the people he loves.

 

 

Junhui clings when it’s time to leave, squeezing Seungcheol’s shoulders before curling Seungcheol’s fingers over a small drawstring bag. “For you, hyung,” Junhui beamed, “goodies!” and then he’s dashing off to fuss at Mingyu’s hair and fiddle with the buttons of Soonyoung’s coat, compressing months’ worth of coddling into the minutes before the bus arrives to bring them back to the base.

Seungcheol stares at the bag in his hand, fabric soft to the touch. He’d forgotten to bring gloves out, today, and he can barely feel his fingers but every other part of him is suddenly warm, and he’s rubbing his free hand over his eyes when Minghao tugs his hand away. “Don’t be sad,” Minghao’s saying, “Please don’t, I–hyung, are you crying?”

“I’m not,” Seungcheol laughs, mostly because Minghao just looks so concerned, clutching at Seungcheol’s hand like a lifeline to bring him back to shore even though it’s Seungcheol they’re trying to send off. “I’m fine, Myungho. Take care of everyone,” he adds, when Minghao just frowns even more.

But all Minghao says is, “Stay warm. Mingyu’s nose is already red. It’s kinda really ugly.”

“Oi,” Mingyu yells. Minghao smiles with a pleased hum, eyes shining. Seungcheol slips his hand from Minghao’s and pats his shoulder once, twice, says, “Don’t, Myungho, we need him in one piece.”

“We need you in one piece, too, you know.”

Seungcheol pauses and doesn’t turn around. Joshua’s voice is soft when he says, “Take care of yourself, too, Cheol-ah.”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, and tips his head back when Joshua runs a hand back through his hair.

“That’s good, then.”

Seungcheol nods, closing his eyes, and lets Joshua run careful, light fingers through his hair until it’s time to go.

 

 

Soonyoung falls asleep on the bus, snoring softly against Seungcheol’s shoulder. To his left, Mingyu is awake but quiet, staring out the window. Seungcheol lets him be, checking every few minutes to make sure Mingyu doesn’t fall asleep with his face pressed against the glass.

The drawstring bag is still in his hand, so Seungcheol pulls it open, shaking out the contents onto his palm.

 _Goodies,_ Junhui said, and Seungcheol bites his lip, stifling a grin. Somewhat flattened, a handful of Junhui’s favourite brand of jelly candy rests on Seungcheol’s palm, alongside a good luck charm–the kind they’d all bought whenever one of the members went to take college entrance exams, _So do well and come back safely_ , _kids,_ Jeonghan would sing–and a set of keys, the silver unscratched and new.

And–that’s right. Junhui had moved into an officetel a few months ago, closer to the radio work he’d picked up in everyone’s absence. _He thinks he sounds awkward over radio,_ Joshua announced over dinner, peacefully, like discussing today’s weather, _but people like listening to him._ Cue Junhui’s start-stop-stuttering, _I’m just trying my best_ , as Soonyoung nods sagely. _You’re right, Junnie’s the most charming of us all,_ and then they’re talking over and around each other again, debating charm points and variety talents. Like this, Seungcheol is twenty-nine and twenty-three all at once, time folding into this pocket where he’s the same as he’s always been, as if nothing at all has changed.

Now, though, Seungcheol slides the key into the bag and into his pocket, fingers wrapped tight around the bag still. The contact is anchoring, and something in the pressure of it in his hand feels familiar, comfortable.

The jelly candy, when he eats it, is too sweet, sticking to the back of his throat. Seungcheol eats all of it anyway.

 

 

It’s early in spring when Seungcheol finally returns. The bus back is unusually crowded, and Seungcheol only spares the smallest drop of guilt when he slides into the last aisle seat away from the sun washing through the windows, narrowly beating the sad soul now stuck in a state of squinty discomfort for the duration of the ride.

There was a time, once, when Seungcheol wouldn’t have given a second thought before offering his seat to the other. It’s something Seungcheol is uncomfortably aware of, a train of thought folded neatly at the back of his mind before it’s overshadowed by the slow, blooming thrum of a headache unfurling at the base of his skull.

He feels almost drunk, Seungcheol’s higher functions melting into each other until he’s malleable, ready to sink into whatever space is made for him, anywhere at all he’ll fit.

Like this, Seungcheol’s first sight of Seoul again is something he misses entirely, sleeping fitfully cheek-to-shoulder, neck aching when he wakes later, vision a blur of stretched-out shadows, washed-out colour and faraway sunlight.

 

 

**> Group Chat (13)**

 

shua | 10:24

_Hey, what time is everyone getting back :]_

_I can pick everyone up!_

 

Kim Mingyu | 10:35

_???? You dont have schedules today_

_Hao r u at home_

 

小八 | 10:36 

_shua-hyung’s pre-recording until 12_

 

shua | 10:40

_Oh :-O_

_I can pick everyone up after that :]_

 

小八 | 10:40 

ㅋㅋㅋ _jun-hyung’s free tho_

_probably sleeping_

_but free_

 

Kim Mingyu | 10:41

_Thanks haohao! will call u to pick me up soon_

_No stress shua hyung im crashing at hao’s . it’s technically a shared apartment anyway_

 

小八 | 10:42

_.....with seokminnie maybe but hes not here and neither are you???_

_leave 20mins warning before you need me there_

 

shua | 10:49

_I forgot everyone gets back at different times_

_How about you, Cheol_

 

shua | 10:52

_Cheol-ah?_

 

 

**> Junnie**

 

[Draft] ...

_hey, i still have your keys, if thats okay_

 

 

Junhui lives on the opposite side of the river from the company, in a building that is tall, modern and well-maintained, all sleek lines and the privacy of a mostly residential neighbourhood. Seungcheol spares a thought towards how long it must take Junhui to get to the company from here, or how often he might still stop by these days, before pushing the thoughts away. They’re all old enough to afford for their indulgences, now, or at the very least accept whatever consequences follow in their wake.

The keys have long since warmed in Seungcheol’s hand, but Seungcheol wonders if he's supposed to knock, still.He smiles, very faintly. Shakes his head, just a little.

At the door, Seungcheol fumbles with the keys–his keys?–jamming them into the lock with no response once, twice, before stumbling in on attempt number three into a narrow entryway. There are shoes piled together in the corner, mismatched; a partially successful attempt at tidiness.

Seungcheol dodges the stairs awkwardly situated just beyond the entryway. He leaves behind evidence of his presence in Junhui’s home in a careless, sleepy trail: shoes, duffel, coat, hat. Finds a kitchenette to the right, couch and coffee table clumped together by a TV on the left. Everything in its place, haphazard and scattered with books, half-empty mugs, a vase of daisies left on the counter and barely hanging on.

A floor-to-ceiling window stretches across the opposite wall, three different but complementary sets of curtains interrupting an otherwise constant stream of Seoul, midday sun glinting off the Han River. Seungcheol blinks.

“Ah,” a voice calls from behind him, “you got home safe. I’m glad.”

And suddenly Junhui is here, wandering over and turning Seungcheol to face him. Cupping his hands over both of Seungcheol’s cheeks, Junhui tilts his Seungcheol’s head this way and that, making soft, considering noises.

“Sleep time,” Junhui concludes. He sounds close to sleep himself, really.

“I–you–Junnie, where did you come from?”

A pause.

Junhui phrases his response as a question: “I live here, though?”

“No.”

Junhui frowns.

“Well, yes,” Seungcheol corrects, “but not what I meant.” He makes a vague, sweeping hand gesture at the entirety of the apartment, and Junhui’s mouth parts, _oh!_

“There’s a loft! Up the stairs.” So, that’s where the stairs went.

Seungcheol scrunches his nose. “Like a bunk bed.”

“Yeah,” Junhui nods, fast enough his hair ruffles. “I think they’re fun.”

Seungcheol lets out a breath, one after the next, and then he’s laughing–wheezing–as he leans forward, tucks his face between Junhui’s neck and shoulder. Junhui takes him all in stride, slides his hands down to Seungcheol’s hips, guiding them both back towards the stairs. This should’ve been Seungcheol’s first warning, had he realised in time.

He doesn’t, and thus doesn’t register what’s happening until Junhui’s hands shift again–one around Seungcheol’s shoulders, the other under his knees–and picks Seungcheol up, moving them both up the stairs. Seungcheol rolls his eyes, Junhui jolting a little at the sensation. Seungcheol bites his lip, and rests a hand on Junhui’s chest, over his heart.

“You’ve been working out,” he mumbles against Junhui’s collarbone.

Junhui laughs. “Leg day tomorrow. You come with, too.”

 

 

**> Group Chat (13)**

 

JUN JUN JUN | 13.30

_Everyone hi hi hi_

_i found seungcheol-hyung_

_no need to worry *___*_

 

 

“You didn’t have to wait, you know.”

Seungcheol has his back turned to Junhui when he says it. And it’s not a question, so Seungcheol’s not expecting an answer, not really. Junhui doesn’t say anything, just slings a leg over Seungcheol’s thigh. He presses his mouth against the back Seungcheol’s neck.

Junhui’s warm, a solid line of heat along Seungcheol’s spine, and it’s too hot to be in bed with Junhui and a blanket, but Seungcheol doesn’t complain when Junhui fiddles with the blanket, tugging it properly over both of them before curling an arm around Seungcheol’s middle.

Finally, Junhui says, “Sleep now, feelings later.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” Seungcheol says, just to be contrary.

“Hyung,” Junhui whines, _“Seungcheol.”_ And oh, he sounds really young when he does that. Maybe it’s Seungcheol who feels old. Seungcheol doesn’t know, anymore. He’s tired.

 _You got home safe,_ Junhui’s voice drifts into his head. _I’m glad._

“ ‘Kay,” Seungcheol says.

“Okay,” Junhui echoes.

 

 

**> Group Chat (13)**

 

COUPS | 16:14

_I wasn’t even missing, you know_

 

1004 | 16:18

_he lives! meat for dinner tonight at the dorm_

_bring cheollie with you, junnie_

 

COUPS | 16:18

_I’m right here_

 

JUN JUN JUN | 16.21

_:D :D :D !_

 

 

Home had, in Seungcheol’s absence, changed.

Joshua stayed in the dorm, these last two years. He greets everyone as they arrive in English. “You’re welcome,” he says, and stands up wherever he might be at the time, arms spread proudly.

“Wow,” Jeonghan chimes, each time. “Joshuji’s amazing.”

It’s true. Free of everyone’s individual and collective clutter, the dorm is cleaner than Seungcheol’s ever seen it. Immaculate, even. Seungcheol isn’t sure how he feels about this changed, spotless dorm. He thinks he might still be processing.

The dorm, as Seungcheol remembers it, was an organised chaos that spiralled out with the kitchen as its nucleus, Hansol and Seungkwan at the counter as Seokmin yelled rebuttals to their conversation from the other end of the dorm, Jihoon and Wonwoo poking their heads in as Chan’s laugh lights up the dorm from where he’s doubled over by the dining table.

In the present, Soonyoung says, “You’re looking fresh, hyung.”

“Welcome back,” Jihoon adds, swiping a piece of meat from the grill as Mingyu turns around. Minghao steals the meat straight from Jihoon’s chopsticks, eyes crinkling as he grins around the mouthful, and Jihoon narrows his eyes.

“You didn’t say that when we got here,” Chan interrupts. Beside him, Wonwoo snorts, ruffling the top of Chan’s head.

Jihoon yanks Minghao’s hand, chopsticks and all, and steals a piece of meat write back. “Ha!” Then, pointing Minghao’s chopsticks at Chan, Jihoon says, “I was talking to everyone.”

“Were you really, Jihoonie,” Soonyoung says.

“Well. It was implied.”

The door to the kitchen opens, Hansol and Seungkwan strolling in with several grocery bags. Seokmin lunges out of nowhere for the bags, yelling. “Cola!”

“Cola!” Junhui yells.

“Kids,” Joshua says, but he’s smiling. “You’re cleaning up any mess after this.”

Jeonghan adds, “Correct! Shua and I are off clean-up for the next six weeks, at least.”

“What is this mouth even _saying_ ,” Seungcheol laughs, squishing Jeonghan’s cheeks together.

“Oh, oh,” Seungkwan starts. His eyes are bright, and his voice suspiciously thick. “I’ve missed this.”

Seokmin shoves the cola bottle he was opening towards Chan, covering his ears. “No. No crying! If you cry, I’ll cry.”

“You’re all weak,” Minghao says, muffled, hiding behind Junhui. Jihoon’s shoving more meat into his mouth as Wonwoo muses, fondly, “We’re getting too old for this.” Jihoon chokes, pressing a hand to his mouth. Hansol clears his throat. “Guys.”

Soonyoung launches himself at Wonwoo.

“I’m even older than you are, Wonwoo-ya, _how could you.”_

“Guys,” Hansol tries again.

A loud clatter.

Everyone turns. Mingyu stares at the rest of them, an empty colander on the floor in front of him.

“Dinner,” Mingyu says. Hansol adds, “Yeah, that.”

Then Seungcheol’s grabbing cutlery by the handful as Minghao grabs plates, the others making a mass exodus to the dining table where Mingyu’s carrying the meat to. Amidst the flurry of movement, a voice that sounds a lot like Junhui’s says, “The colander,” followed by a series of _clang_ -ing and muffled swears as everyone stops, trying to locate the colander, hopefully no further worse for wear.

Seungcheol catches Junhui’s eyes in the middle of it all, and Junhui puffs his cheeks out and pouts, eyes curling into smiley crescents before his eyes fly open comically as he accidentally bumps against Joshua. Junhui’s voice is too soft to make out, but Seungcheol can still hear him in the way he bends down a little, hands skittering _here_ then _here_ then _here_ , Joshua remaining still patiently, a smile bright in his eyes.

Jeonghan’s voice, too close to Seungcheol, says, “Our Junnie really has a kind heart, doesn’t he?”

He’s already looking at Seungcheol when Seungcheol turns to face him. Seungcheol knows Jeonghan well, better than most of the others, and he knows all of his members better than he knows his own hands. Still, there’s a look on Jeonghan’s face that Seungcheol can’t quite interpret, isn’t quite sure he wants to.

“He does,” Seungcheol settles on instead.

Jeonghan hums, and _of course,_ as if they’d ever disagree on something like this, but. Seungcheol grips more tightly at the cutlery, somehow heavier in his hands, and feels inexplicably lacking.

 

 

They stop for ice cream on the way back to Junhui’s place. Seungcheol minds it less than he thought he would, leaving the dorm again at the end of the night, and nobody had looked twice at Seungcheol going back with Junhui. “Don’t forget the leftovers, hyung,” Mingyu told him, handing him a bag of pork buns Seungcheol definitely doesn’t remember Mingyu making for dinner. “For breakfast,” Minghao clarifies, tiptoeing so his head peeks over Mingyu’s shoulder. “Jun-hyung will sleep all morning if you let him. Don’t let him.”

“I’ll make sure he eats,” Seungcheol promised, mystified but pleased, and Minghao nodded before Mingyu tugged him back, roping him into something-or-other before their own, less speedy exit.

Red light. Junhui turns to Seungcheol and opens his mouth. Seungcheol feeds him a spoonful of ice cream, and bites into his lip, smiling when Junhui jolts in his seat. “ ‘S really cold.”

“I did say we should pull over to eat,” Seungcheol manages around a mouthful of ice cream.

“Maybe,” Junhui allows, “but. You look really cute in the passenger’s seat, hyung. I’ve always wanted to drive us everywhere.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know how to answer that. He presses the spoon against Junhui’s mouth until he accepts more ice cream, beaming. Now that he thinks about it, he’s never gotten to drive Junhui around before, either. He makes a mental note to remedy this in the near future.

The light changes back to green. Junhui turns back to the road, pulling them forward again.

“You’re working tomorrow, right? Radio?”

The radio is off, only the engine’s smooth thrum between them, the narrow road ahead.

“Mm,” Junhui says. “Night time, Jun time.”

Seungcheol nods, once. “I’ll tune in.” The car swerves slightly. Seungcheol frowns. “Junnie?”

“Don’t,” Junhui says. Adds: “I’m fine. You don’t have to listen, if you’d rather not.”

“I want to.” A pause. “Does it make a difference if I do or not?”

Junhui hedges. “It–shouldn’t, I think.”

Seungcheol rephrases: “Do you want me to listen?”

“Yes.” Junhui’s answer is immediate.

The certainty in Junhui’s voice makes Seungcheol pause, in a good way, happiness and pride and something else unnamed caught in his throat, waiting to be given words. Seungcheol swallows, digging the spoon back into the ice cream cup, and comes back empty.

Seungcheol’s voice catches. He doesn’t mean for it to. Seungcheol says, “You’ll do really well. You’ve been doing really well.”

If Junhui notices the break in his voice–and he must have, there’s no way he didn’t–he doesn’t mention it.

And for all that Seungcheol’s been the voice of reason for all of them, he thinks the years have chipped away at him, pruned him into something–not less, but something more simply packaged, shaped into whatever it was that was asked of him: older brother, leader, anchor. But Junhui’s only built himself up, stumbling up from the roots, fully bloomed into himself–nothing more, nothing less. The kind of person that, if Seungcheol ever tripped, would fall right down with him, not out of clumsiness, but so Seungcheol wouldn’t be the one who hits the ground, wouldn’t be the one who trips over alone.

“–cheol? Seungcheol.” Junhui’s voice, faraway and too close, all at once.

Seungcheol blinks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Junhui’s still facing the road, but his voice is firm. “Do you need–is it too quiet?”

_Our Junnie really has a kind heart, doesn’t he?_

Junhui, Seungcheol thinks, is the most giving person he knows.

“Maybe. Hey, Junnie? Tell me a story. Night time, Jun time.”

“Okay.” Seungcheol can hear Junhui smile. “Night time, Jun time.”

It’s a long drive back, almost an hour, but Junhui’s voice remains a constant murmur to Seungcheol’s ears as he breathes. Lights pass them by, unclear where they reflect over the water, and Seungcheol wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t.

Seungcheol knows they’ll be home soon enough, but for now he’s here, and Junhui’s here, and they have time.

 

 

There’s a conversation Seungcheol overheard once, a year before he enlisted. He was on laundry duty that day, and had left his shared room last on his rounds collecting everyone’s clothes hampers. Wonwoo’s got a handheld console out, a tinny, cheery BGM filling the room as Junhui peers over Wonwoo’s shoulder to watch. Seungcheol pauses at the doorway, watching. Something soft settles inside him, seeing the two of them grin at the same time whenever Wonwoo lands a point.

“So,” Wonwoo says.

“Next topic, please,” Junhui answers, before adding, “treasure box on the left–yeah! Yeah.”

“I didn’t ask anything yet.”

Junhui huffs. “I know. Please don’t, I might end up answering.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Mm.” More quietly, Junhui says, “Guess not? Just, um. It hurts, I think? Sometimes. Just a little.”

Wonwoo looks up from the handheld. Seungcheol steps to the side, leaning against the wall. The music continues, but it sounds muted, Seungcheol paying it barely any attention.

“Junnie,” Wonwoo begins, but Junhui interrupts, “Not in a bad way! Really, I just, it’s–”

“ _Junnie_ ,” Wonwoo repeats.

“It’s just,” Junhui explains, “Sometimes, you know, we’ll be doing, I don’t know, anything. Or nothing! Um, that’s not really the point, but he’d look at me or I’d look at him and, I don’t know. Sometimes he smiles? Or sometimes he doesn’t, but I’d see, and.” An exhale, loud. “He looks wide open, Wonu. Like I’d look at him and _see_ , and he’d let me. The opposite of prying. And it would hurt.”

Wonwoo’s voice is even. He sounds unbelievably kind.

“Isn’t that the point, though? In getting to know someone. In being able to see.”

“...And when he sees me?” Junhui’s barely audible anymore, but Seungcheol’s already walking, and doesn’t hear the rest. He thinks about it, though, he can’t help it: _when,_ Junhui had said, not _if._ Seungcheol finishes the last two rounds of laundry late that night.

 

 

When they finally get back from dinner at the dorm, Seungcheol confesses.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d wait.”

What he means is, _I didn’t think you would._ What he means is, _I didn’t know if I wanted you to._ But neither of these things encompass everything Seungcheol means to say. Or at least, not in a way that is as truthful as Seungcheol is trying to be, and not often is.

“Ah.” Junhui’s mouth quirks upwards. “We’re going to talk about feelings.”

Junhui has just switched off the bedside lamps. It’s silent, for a short while. In the dark everything seems both more serious and more real, and Seungcheol hadn’t realised he was considering another exit until the opportunity presented itself, stretching out before him. Like this, Junhui is waiting again.

“We don’t have to,” Seungcheol starts, then re-directs: “What I meant, what I _mean,_ is that–I’m glad. That you waited. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Junhui says. Seungcheol thinks he knew that, too, beneath all the other things, after all these years, but he doesn’t interrupt. Junhui continues, “Did you know? I’m a person that acts as I like, almost every single time. I still am.”

“I know.”

“And I’ve kissed other people before, you know–”

The words are out before Seungcheol can swallow them back down: “Before or after I–” _Left._ “Before or after.”

“Yes. No.” Junhui shifts, voice muffled when he speaks again. “Once.”

This was not ever a conversation Seungcheol imagined himself having.

Seungcheol says, slowly, “You didn't like it?”

“I liked it well enough, I think? But that was it, and, well. I thought if it’s like this then I’d rather wait, after all.”

“You said that it hurt,” Seungcheol says, apropos of nothing.

Junhui’s fingers brush against Seungcheol’s shoulder. “I didn’t like being alone.”

Seungcheol swallows.

“It was a little selfish, wasn’t it? To just keep waiting. You never asked me to. I didn’t, didn’t know if it was something I could take you up on? But what else was there to do...”

Junhui tapers off, laughing a little. Mostly he sounds sad.

Seungcheol turns so he’s lying on his side, leaning forward. Junhui’s fingers touch his throat when he talks.

“It’s not selfish. You aren’t selfish, Junnie, but you’re allowed to be.” Junhui’s fingers trail down, splaying out under Seungcheol’s collarbone, above his heart. “You can be as selfish as you like.”

Junhui doesn’t look at him until right before he says, “So should you.”

Then his eyes find Seungcheol’s, and stay.

Here is something Junhui does when he’s being honest: he’ll look away from you. Because he doesn’t like to feel as though he’s pressuring you, or because being stared at is something that makes Junhui, himself, feel pressured.

But Junhui is here, looking at Seungcheol, seeing him.

Selfless, selfish.

Seungcheol rests his hand over Junhui’s, and doesn’t look away, pulse beating fast beneath their hands.

 

 

It’s another three days before Seungcheol makes an attempt at unpacking his things. Or rather, Junhui doesn’t make him leave but he doesn’t ask Seungcheol to settle in, either, so Seungcheol follows the path of least resistance and follows after Junhui whenever they’re both around at the same time.

They’re both around at the officetel a lot. Junhui and Seungcheol are the kind of people that Mingyu has affectionally declared as _homebodies_ for essentially the last decade.

Seungcheol is hovering, he knows. His only saving grace is that he’s aware Junhui enjoys being doted on. An equal opportunity giver-and-receiver.

“Hey,” Junhui mumbles, hands wandering until they locate Seungcheol’s head, resting on Junhui’s stomach as a pillow. It’s unseasonably warm, the highest recorded temperatures for April that Seoul’s ever seen, and Junhui isn’t wearing a shirt. Also, neither of them can be bothered adjusting the central heating. As a result, everywhere they touch is sticky with sweat and a little uncomfortable. Seungcheol foresees himself remaining exactly where he is until forcibly moved.

“Hey,” Junhui tries again, tugging lightly at Seungcheol’s hair. “I think there’s a bug in the house.”

“Okay.”

“No, I– _hyung.”_ Junhui tugs harder. Seungcheol tilts his head up.

“You only ever call me that when you want something, now,” Seungcheol says, before considering. “Or when you’re trying to act cute.”

Junhui tilts his head _just so_ as he stares down at Seungcheol in a way that calls Seungcheol’s attention to his cheeks, the line of his jaw. “I’m always cute. Please let the bug out of the house.”

 _Let the bug out of the house._ Seungcheol has been here before, and he finds the promise of wandering strategically around the officetel to lure out whatever bug let itself in, vastly unappealing. It’s the only way about it, too: Junhui once accidentally stepped on a bug–Seungcheol can’t remember what kind, anymore, just that it was rather big–when they were trainees, and the entire dorm had watched Junhui’s expression collapse with guilt.

Seungcheol presses his face back against Junhui’s skin and, because he can sense Junhui pout before Junhui actually gets around to pouting, blows a raspberry against Junhui’s stomach, for good measure.

“Bugs haven’t done anything to you, Junnie.”

“But it’s a mosquito.”

Seungcheol blinks, and Junhui shivers, which Seungcheol mostly tries to ignore. But Junhui doesn’t add anything more, so Seungcheol prompts, “I don’t see the connection.”

“Mosquitoes have really amazing survival skills,” Junhui explains, “Soonyoungie finds them everywhere, he’d see them all year long.”

And it is so like Soonyoung to monitor the survival competency of summer-prominent insects, and so like Junhui to recount his findings in perfect solemnity, that Seungcheol can’t help it: he laughs, then sits up, then tugs Junhui up with him.

“I’ll chase the mosquito, and you chase–put a shirt on, Junnie, you’ll catch a cold.”

There. Compromise is the heart of all successful communication.

“Weren’t complaining about it before, though,” Junhui says gleefully, reaching for Seungcheol’s duffel.

Oh. Well, then.

Voice muffled by fabric, Junhui continues, “You should put your stuff away sometime, you can leave them wherever you like.” Junhui’s head pops from the shirt’s collar, hair mussed. “There’s lots of room! The cabinets are all too big.”

Seungcheol’s fingers twitch, but he holds them still. He thinks of Junhui spending months and months in this officetel, surrounded by so much empty space even after he’d tidied, even after he’d put all his things away. Imagines him going about the days working and reading and resting, smiling absent-mindedly, and sleeping through breakfast without second thought.

When they’d lived together in the dorm, Seungcheol was always first awake to make sure everyone else followed, and Junhui never missed any of his meals.

“Junnie,” Seungcheol says.

Junhui looks at him. Just looks at him. Seungcheol looks back and sees Junhui, too.

“It’s fine,” Seungcheol says, in the end. “Just–you.”

Junhui smiles, leaning forward until he tips over, and wraps his arms around Seungcheol, nudging his head against Seungcheol’s chest. He’s heavy, but Seungcheol rests a hand over Junhui’s hair anyway, mirroring their earlier posture, and everywhere Junhui touches him lifts up inside, airborne, grounded.

 

**Author's Note:**

> cant believe they basically never changed group chat dns for years & years. amazing
> 
>  
> 
>  EDIT: im also on twitter @birdclubs (or @storybookmp3 for rpf & writing yelling) so say hi if you'd like!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the walk is longer than i remember](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17496092) by [tonyang (kurusui)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurusui/pseuds/tonyang)




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